We used to vacation...

Shame England can't catch this well. . .

We used to vacation

At the moment I’m sat on a beach front just out of Margao (Madgoan), the capital of Goa. Starting with the end of my time in Gokarna this chapter isn’t one with summits and valleys of productivity, rather the time has been spent in a very relaxed manner. However this relaxed, ‘shanti shanti’, mentality is a nice one to have while submerged in this vibrant culture, with different intriguing things to do.

German Ninja Circus

                The first of these small accomplishments is to be found on the slack line. A slack line is a long piece of material that is used to secure crates on lorries and ships. The elasticated material is about an inch in diameter, and very strong.  Strung up between two palm tree’s the slack line takes upon the nature of a tight rope. After a few days spending reasonable periods of time on the line I can now stand, balanced, on one foot. However the German lads who were teaching me were able to walk forward’s, turn around and walk backwards.

                As a nice aside to keep the moment fresh, one of the guys I’ll be traveling with has just started a crowing contest with a cock. By means of attrition the cock is winning. We have spent the last three hours relaxing in the afternoon sun, feeding an elephant and swapping stories over Chai.

                After Gokarna I spent a night sleeping on a rooftop. Nice as the thought was in the warm light of the afternoon, the night was a different matter. The rooftop held room for maybe a few dozen people. That night, with the mosquitoes buzzing around my ears and the roof dripping irregular from a dozen different places my mood was perfectly aligned to really despise the drunk, drugged up middle aged Mexican who stumbled to his mat loudly swearing in Spanish. With no exaggeration here, the guy lay thrashing across the place with his fingers down his throat trying to make himself throw up. He then switched to English and ranted on about wanting to kill someone. Accumulatively I got maybe less than three hours sleep. Though for the privilege of sleeping there and the convenience of leaving my bag there for 48hours it cost me less than 50p.

                The next day I wake late. I’d met up with Amber the day before, and that afternoon walked down the beach, into the jungle and along the stream. The forest blurs out of focus while you focus on that immediately around you, and then blurred back into focus when this gigantic Banyan Tree is suddenly found in front of you. At the bottom of the rough steps shaped from the side of the hill there is a large urn containing rupees. Inscribed on it are the words ‘Give what you want, take what you need.’ At the top of the hill was a rather disingenuous Guru who was much more inclined to drinking and smoking chillums than generating wisdom. It was around three in the afternoon when we arrived, and he looked like he’d consumed a true mess of drinks. Though the handsy Guru did chime a note of discord the place remained very peaceful. It had the air of one on the places in India which act as a well of symbolism, a whirling cornacopiate of Indian culture. The tree, music, smoke, fire, forest, Guru, laughter, children, tourists, smiles, the ‘please adjust’ mentality which is extended as an implicit invitation. The gentle heat, and the cooling breeze, the mixture of languages and the smell of fresh sweat, dry earth and wet leaves.

Arumbole. 

 Arambul has a famous sunset drum circle where different talented musicians and entertainers come to play, dance and perform. I made a minute video of Amber showing of her Poi skills on the edge of the sea, with the water lapping at her feet. She was performing fire Poi and managed to synchronies different pieces with an Australian guy who had luminous Poi.

                Tonight I’m going to get a night bus to Hampi where I’ll be staying till Monday night. One of the friends Amber made through her charity work is coming down for the weekend to, and he’s going to come rock climbing with me. Amber’s heading down to Gokarna for a dip in the phosphorescent plankton.

***

                The date is the 14^th of March and it’s been a few days since I wrote the above entry and my time in Hampi is coming to an end. I’ve really enjoyed the last few days. The place that I’m staying at seems to specialise in quartering climbers. It’s positioned at the bottom of a circular array of rocks at the back and sides, and in front of the main open aired, thatched roof lounge, a plateau of lush green rice fields occupies the horizon until it meets the cordon of distant palm trees.

                It’s much too hot to climb or go bouldering for most of the day. At sunrise and sunset the rocks are cool enough to climb, but for the rest of the day the roasting rocks amplify the challenge of climbing. It’s surprising how invigorating it is to use the upmost extremities of the body, two fingers from each hand and a few toes, to engage in a natural challenge 20 feet high. It’s also interesting how quickly you reach your limit. The first climb of the day is full of fluid momentum but gradually as the minutes tick past each clasping of the raw rock, each bashing of the toes seems to drain away the base level of strength in the digits. Each exhibition is composed of a minimum of two people. While one person climbs the other stands below behind a crash mat, arms upheld and at the ready. Sitting here and reading this it’s a goodly feat of the imagination to truly recall the sensation of losing complete control of your body. There’s something almost exhilarating about knowing that you simply can’t hold on to this rock a second longer, and that the next solid grip is within the extended reach of your arm, but not within the limits of your energy reserves.

Owned!

                At sunset the usual array of talented individuals come out and gather up on the rocks. Apart from the acute sensation of being in the wilderness, I’ve come across one of the most amazing sensory experiences in India. It’s called a Hang. Pronounced Hung this musical instrument has only existed for 10 years, and it’s excruciating rarity enhances it’s astonishing beauty. If you picture a person sat with their legs crossed, a miniature flying saucer placed in their lap. Reaching from knee to knee the two metal halves are bound by a wooden band. The hidden, bottom half has a doughnut like concave. The top half has seven or eight different sized dimples across a plane in the middle of the top piece of metal. In the direct centre of the piece is a dark nipple. The musician drums his thumb or palms across the nipple and picks up a drum like base. At the same time he dapples his fingers across the dimpled tones and atop of the base line an airy harp like sound appears with a splash of musical beauty. Sounding at the least like two wonderful complementary instruments the Hang is made by one couple in Switzerland. There’s a two year waiting list and a cost of around $1000. It would be worth it.

                Yesterday me and Sam spent an hour and a half walking with a group of travellers through banana plantations and parched earth to a genteel pool and waterfall like set of rapids. Unfortunately I left my camera at Goan Corner, and so was unable to snap the pictures river. That didn’t stop me from splashing around though and testing me strength against a prolific current. My bags are packed and my bill paid. I’ve eaten and slept here for three full days and two nights, and it’s less than £20. I’ve stopped wearing t-shirts during the day now, or else I go through two or three due to my desire to wear dry linen. In a few hours I’ll hoist my bags onto my shoulders and walk with all composed grace along the precarious paths of the rice paddy.

***

The ammunition.

                Lord Krishna was upset one day that his one true love did not share the same blue hue to her skin that Krishna did. Seeking advice from his mother, Krishna was told to change the colour of his love’s skin to any he so desired. Krishna went wild. ‘Holi’ is one of the few religious festivals that seems to be more revelry than religion. Though of course there is still a highly sacred atmosphere in Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna, even here there is a mischief in the air. Holi is festival of colour, and every person on the street is fair game to be bombarded by colour. Sold as dry powders the natural variety of colour is astounding. I’ve vamped up on sun glasses, a white dhoti and a scarf to act as a face mask. I should say that this is my ‘pre-impression’ that I’ve acquired through word of mouth and literature, tomorrow I’ll have first hand experience.

The Rainbow War...

The night before Holi is celebrated with great bonfires throughout India, though more so in the north. The story goes that an evil monkey demon who was impervious to fire was talked into walking Krishna’s love through an inferno. The demon did not know that it’s immunity from flame only occurred when it was alone. Krishna protected his true love while the monkey demon burned. The prequel to the fires is a local custom where a man and woman are armed with a bamboo beating stick. The man has to defend himself while the woman is tasked with beating him.

After a wholesome rest with the smell of burnt wood still in the air, Holi truly kicks in. All the colourful powders get added to water, and the street becomes a massive iridescent water fight. Duck lures and party whistles, chanting and the honking of car horn’s fill the ear.

                                                           *

                The sensation of being a well off, young, white male in India is as an interesting experience as any sensory one. Every day I see people who are poor, and without a fraction of the wealth that I take for granted. I won’t say much about wealth because I imagine anyone reading this will be well acquainted with it, and therefore can more easily picture both one side of the scale and the other. There’s a website called TED, and the slogan is ‘ideas worth spreading.’ One of the presentations that I viewed was on wealth and happiness. Apparently, so the scientist said, there is a proportionate increase in happiness in someone’s life when have a greater monetary means. In America I believe that this level fell somewhere around $70,000pa and that amounts over this some did not really increase the happiness of the individual. Wealth is a relative concept. In India, I think that an arbitrary figure which would more than suffice to provide the same level of happiness would be £10,000pa.

Catching Shiva's flame.

The history of India is a marvellous beast, but in some respects this country feels like it is still malting its winter coat. The main form* of discipline in most schools is still of a physical nature. I can in no way say with great certainty that violence is considered causal in all schools in India, but I can say that I can talk about specific cases, and I believe you can see the manifest effects.

                In truth, before I spin a few stained experiences into a negative anecdote, I feel like I should climb down from my moral peak. Each country has its own messed up complexities. I want to spend my time in India improving the country in some small, mostly insignificant manner and I don’t think that provides much ground to presume. However talking with people has allowed me a raw resource, from primary research I can say that casual molestation of tourists, and therefore you presume Indian women, continues nigh on unchecked. I’ve found that when thinking about this issue I’ve failed to find an even keel due to my desire to balance all the questions at hand.

                                                                                 *                At the railway station in Mumbai me and Amber sat and waited for three hours to get our train. We’d eaten before arriving, and had spent a good few hours picking up books that day so all was well. A mid-twenties Indian man was sat next to me for a few hours. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a western styled t-shirt. We shared a Chai without exchanging many words. I read my book, with the melody of the station in my ears. He read his newspaper with earphones in his. Maybe forty minutes before my train was due three middle aged, large Indian men came and stood over my fellow reader. They slapped him round his head for having his earphones in, and then slapped him again for not being on his feet. Shaking the paper they gave him a verbal roasting. He seemed to protest that the paper was in a different dialect to the one they presumed it was. This took the wind out of their sail for a moment, but they soon found it again with an open hand. Telling the man to get his things and move they tackled the stare of us westerners by making suggestive motions to show our bags weren’t safe around the likes of the departing man. . . In the street this morning we walked through throng of laughing children and smiling men. Amber had her camera out, and taking pictures of objects seemed to signal a mass surge of both actors and directors. Men would strike a pose only to break it and move the camera man to a spot with a better back drop. Smiles bred from smiles and if natural mischief and amusement were not enough then the trickle of Hindi that me and Amber can squeeze out between us (her more than me) is sure to act as a fuel for the laughter. If we’re sat on some temple steps and a flood of teenage lads come and sit with us, some father with a babe in arm comes and peels them away from a distance with the beckoning of one finger. Any man, woman or child you stop and ask will either be happy to help you, or act as a spark to ignite the help in others. You seem to be surrounded in sea of passion, and yet by the colour of your skin you mainly gravitate towards you generosity, happiness and respect. Of course people do try to take advantage of you, but in my particular circumstance the people who have tried to take advantage of me have in some way interacted with me. Not once have I even thought beyond casual precaution that I might be mugged or beaten. And so because I always have the ability to interact with those who desire to pull the wool over my eyes, it’s simple to produce an easy smile and with a polite decline confidently walk away. For me, even at the worst the situation has not yet ever called for anything beyond the Hindi word for ‘enough’.

Spirituality or spirits. Same Same but different.

                And so, it’s a marvellous and queer sensation being a young, well off white male in India. It seems that I’m engaging on a dual learning process in comprehending the dynamics of Hindi life, and the boundaries of my interactions within it. I truly hope that in a few months time I look back at this as the moment that I was stood beside the pool, and though dressed correctly, just still an observer. By the end of my time in India, I want full submersion.

***

Mathura sunrise

‘Resin on my heartstrings.’

                After waking from the early morning experience with the Ghats and the groupy temple attendants I found my cache of accumulated poetry on my computer. Happy days. Amber and I spent the hot mid-day hours languishing under a lazy fan, discussing, reciting and generally dancing with poetry. We both dipped a toe in the water and tried to conjure something to the surface. Hers was a lot more successful than mine, but I’ll put mine in any way for the sake of amusement. This was one of the occasions where an act far supposes the ability to describe it, so i’ll just put the pieces down and move on.

Picking the pink flower.

This is yours . . .

By Amber Macintyre

Holi

Daytime fireworks

Colours and Heat

Ongoing Festivity

Dance

Laugh

Eat

Repeat

Daytime Fireworks

In your eyes

Reflected

Paints

Smiles

Highs

We can all be the same under rainbow colour

Dancing to the drums under a rainfall of flowers

Even the necessities become celebrations

Eating and drinking the festivity sensations

Daytime Fireworks

Cover the street

Timeless carnival

Dance

Laugh

Eat

Repeat

Heartbeats

I lie so close your heart beats in my ear

It feels like you are me as your lifeline I can hear

It doesn’t tell me of the current charging around to each bodily crevice

This is evident in your fingers and the warmth with which they caress

It doesn’t tell me if you are nervous or if it’s all fake

For this is proved already as the notes in your voice shake

It doesn’t tell me of how much you love me

In your shining eyes this is plain to see

This is not an emotional tool for which I can pick at information

But the timed drum beat of your heart brings me condemnation

For believing in immortality, with your heart beat in my ear

I know to treasure what I have because the end is near

***

Sunset over Hampi

The travels begins- Goa & Gokarna

Sunset over Kudly beach

Saturday the 19^th ( Chess and the Israeli. All nighter till 5.45 taxi. Story of the Israeli – guy despresive from commune “12 brothers and sisters” is close to 30 now, with the boy for 12 years. Sectioned at 19, spent 6 months travelling on his fellas funds. Fella’s brother has just been discovered and controversy over the child’s existence.)

                On Saturday day I came to the realisation that the cloths I’d so carefully brought with me (bought en-bulk from Primark) weren’t in fact all helpfull. The light and colourful cotton clothes that can be bought anywhere in India seem to be much more comfortable to where, can be packed tighter and reduce you’re ‘tourist!’ levels when bargain. I was wondering down the Main Bazaar, away from New Delhi Train Station looking for a few casual pieces of clothing for my train journey to Goa. The nice couple Annie and Nicholie were walking down the Bazzar towards me. Annie provides a service as an online shopping helper. She finds people in Sweden what ever Indian cloths they’re looking for, and then ships them across. Annie swoops down on my problem, and walks me to a pokey stairwell decorated in bright cloth. On the way she introduces me to an small grey haired man carrying a chess board. I make plans to meet the man in Sam’s Cafe for a few games. The men in the shop find just what I’m looking for with friendly efficiency, and I go back for some food and a game of chess.

                Chess in Delhi

                I play five games with the old man, Jaiwaid Baqui. Loose, win, loose, win, loose. I think the second I won of my own back, but Jaiwaid played with such mischievous ease that I’m inclined to think he scuttled the fourth game just for the sake of having a final. I’m not sure how much of his story is true, i’ll leave the analysis to the reader.

                Jawaid was 58 when i met him. He looked a decade older. A sportsman when younger, he had every Indian man’s love of cricket and claimed to have played for India’s second division in 1968. He went to Germany for a summer when he was 25, and loved the escape from India. I imagine him then as an adventurous spirit with a sportsman’s confidence. After arriving back in India with the expense of the West on his mind, Jawaid talked to a fruit-wallah about making some fast money. Soon enough he was back on a plain, Gulf Air this time. Flight number 067073, indirect flight from Mumbai to Cairo. He was equipped with a suite and $150 of spending expenses. When he arrived he was told that there was a slight delay and he was put up in a three star hotel for the best part of a week. When the phone call came he put on his suite, pocketed the remains of his money and made his way down to the airport. There, he identified the bag he’d been told to pick up, and walked through the customs. Just before the big green ‘Nothing to Declare’ sign, Jawaid was stopped, searched, and found to have 5 kilograms of opium packed in the suitcase.

                For the next 20 years Jawaid had a lot of time to consider whether it was ill luck or malicious design that stole from him his prime. Why had there not been 10 kilograms of opium like he’d been told? Why had the guards been suspicious of a man in a suit when so many shady individuals were going by. Jawaid maintained that he was used as a tip-bit to placate the police, and that was why there was only half the opium. Why throw good money after bad if 5 kilograms was enough to have him sent down for hard time? For Jawaid prison was a mixed experience. Whilst furthering his education and continuing to play chess were two of the side effects of being a political prisoner, Jawaid also said he underwent a spell of torture when suspicions where aroused that he might have been a Indian spy. Jawaid’s story ends with his analysis of the divide of people in India, two poets he recommended (Rabindara Nath Tagore and Doctor Mohamad Allama) and the quote “prison is the best university.” If that’s the case, I think I prefer the bliss of ignorance.

Sunday the 20^th (Met Burta, Josh, Yan, Natalie)

                Still going strong at my arrival to Goa was this ossilating sense of wonder at simply being in India. Like all emotions this is not original, but it has been a continuous powerfull wave pushing my feet along. It seems that I traded the deep, strong and complex connections of friends, family and the familiar for a freedom of action, and design. Over here it doesn’t feel like there is no one there to help you, rather there is a strong desire to believe that anyone would help you if you just asked. Your thirsty, people share the water. You’re hungry, people will make you some food. The abstract weight of potent choices yet to be made has lain on my soul for a long time now. India has been a southing balm on this wound, and has already revitalised a parched soul. The cares of tomorrow are simply so hard to worry about when today is to serene.

Monday the 21^st

Colva beach

(Must do moonlight swim to see luminescent plankton.)

Tuesday the 22^nd (Gokana. Michail, Yawikan, Yawna, Marcus-beach dance. Philosophy & fire)

                The train stations are a little bit hectic. There’s no sure-fire way to pick your train out against a multitude of early, late and special deliveries. Continuous questioning of chai-wallah’s and tourists is a business conducted indefinitely by everyone travelling, at the same time at least until the train is pulling out of the station. Upon arrival there is a similar mess of confusing variables. Competing taxi drivers, dithering tourists, persistent beggars and departing trains. This melting pot of direction is a great place to meet new people. Upon my arrival in Goa that was Josh, Yan, Burta and Natalie, a group of pleasent German travellers. In Gokana that was a nifty Swedish crowd who i’v had some fun with over the last few days.

                The German Aside.

Yan still had a bit of a limp when I met him from coming of a motorbike. He’d bailed two days prior to our meeting, and is on of three people so far who have shown me there recent motorbike scares. Yan also had the misfortune to do around 10,000 rupees worth of damage to the bike, about £140. Deciding that this money could be better employed making his life a happier place, he decided to post pone the return date of the veircales and make a go of it. The place that we stayed in was run by a guy called Chris, who we got talking to over cheep vodka. His mentality is that he’s walked the fine line between doing crime and not getting caught, and now he has until maybe 65 to enjoy the slow lane. At 65 he intends to start moving drugs in a big way and hopes to do so for a few years so that when he is caught he has enough money to ensure his time in prison resembles retirement. The German’s are also quite sure that the man who leant them the motorbike’s was also a gangster. They had given both gentlemen their passport details, and they had at least two weeks left in the country before they’re departure.

Wednesday the 23^rd  ( French harpUp till 6, wild dog’s.)

                The done thing at night here is to buy a bundle of fire wood, if a fire isn’t already going, get a few small bottles of rum and sit in a circle of fire light with strangers listening to the musicians, story tellers and travelling anecdotes. I find that as nice as it is to be able to talk to people of different cultures through the communal use of English as default language, it is extremely refreshing to be able to speak to someone who’s first language is English. So we sit up wrapped in our longies, which is like a cross between a towel and a scarf, feeding the fire and passing around the poisen’s. The Jewish harp and the didgeridoo are two of the more exotic instruments to be used repeatedly, but some excellent players of the harmonica have also been out strutting their stuff, not to mention the guitarists.

 I’d had a long sleep the night before and having not actually done much with the day I ended up being the last one tending the last fire on the beach. I had seven wild dogs scattered around the fire, presumably comfortable at different temperatures, the stary night and the sea. All in all an idyllic experience, made all the more so by the protection offered by the dogs. Any time a stranger came by they’d sit up and begin to growl until the pitter patter of footsteps side stepped the candle light. The dogs seemed more than fine with my company. I only realised that I had such extensive company when i answered a call of nature that co-insided with the exit of the last few fire-dwellers. When i sat down again one of the pack came and curled up at my feet, between me and the warm fire.

That was also the night when some fire twirler accumulated some practice down by the sea. Spinning chains, poles aflame at both ends, and my personal favourite, the flaming holla hoop. She danced with fire for longer than half an hour, twirling a flame hoop up to the tops of her finger tips, arms out-stretched, spinning a complex flame around her body. That was also the night that performing poet gave repeat renditions. Doing his own stuff and some famous pieces, Peter gave numerous powerful renditions of moving poetry. The fire light danced of the wilderness cadged in his eyes, and he had a thick archaic moustache. Crouched in a pair of shorts with the audience enchanted, the noise of the sea beat a steady rhythm of antiquity providing a strong connection to the depths of time.

Thursday the 24^th (Walk,Yoga)

                We went on a walk to the next beach along called kuddly. We missed the trail which takes 10 minutes, and instead tried to carve our way through raw jungle. I was asked to join this spirit of adventure at maybe 1 o’clock in the afternoon. At 3 o’clock I finally pushed through the jungle of Gokana to see the beach of kuddly. However somewhere along the way I pushed on too quickly and left behind the group I set of with. They arrived at 3.50, having gone back to take an easier turn. I defiantly think that if i’d been part of a larger group it would have taken me much longer as well. At four I left to get back in time for Yoga. For some particular reason i decided that jogging back was a good idea. Without time to change my clothing or cool down, I was one very sweaty yoga man. Yoga took an hour an half and the class was free. However the casual opinion is that it has more in common with stretching after a gym session than it does with actual yoga. However it worked perfectly for me- I got a structured stretch and cool down session.

                That night we made plans to buy the raw ingredients for a grill up the next night, and we decided to buy two identical chess boards to see if we couldn’t invent something resembling a four person game.

Friday the 25^th (BBQ, ingredients, chess board)

                The day started well, with me getting up, ordering food and then meeting a consecutive list of people that I knew who came down to eat with me. After maybe 5 different small dishes me and one of the Swedish lads took to the town via rickshaw, just after 6 o’clock, to buy some vegetables, fish, prawns, cooking utensils, and longies (to sit on.) The Swedish lad, Michael, took the food perperation in hand while I cleaned the utensils and built up the fire. After producing enough glowing coal to last us a goodly while I dug a second small pit next to the first and raked across fuel enough for cooking the fish ext. Though it was in fact a lot more expensive when all tallied up, this meal produced a much greater sensation of satisfaction in me than any of the others I’d had so far. It turns out that not only do I miss cooking, but that I love cooking in the most rudimentary way possible. A mosquito net is dirt cheap and I already have a hammock. I’m pretty sure that if circumstances were different, I could live on this beach indefinitely.

Saturday the 26^th (Writing)

Played a form of double chess which involved four players acting as allied generals. Was an engaging alteration to a game played quite a lot on the shores of Om. Next week there is a large festival in which giant carts, with wheels bigger than Jeeps get pulled through the streets by hand. 

Sunday 27^th (Making bowls) 

Over lunch I struck up conversation with three people making different items, carving wood and braiding animals. An hour later I set of a mission to find myself half of a coconut shell. Job done (via a kit kat milkshake) I spent the whole of the afternoon filling and sanding down a coconut shell to make into a bowl like container. It’ll take a few more hours yet to complete but I hope to have it done tomorrow after a walk to town. Taking the correct paths the walk should only take about 45 minutes. I’v been giving some thought as to how i’ll actually spend the majority of my time in India. There’s been numerous stories about individuals who’ve simply been caught up in some charity organisation or another as and when the opportunity arose. There’s also a place which is pronounced ‘aura-veal’ which is a city 2000 people strong who live in different variants of eco-communities. The thought is that you can join in with the community activities and receive accommodation (though i do have a hammock.) and cheep food. I’ll do some research on the different types of community with the intention of finding one with an ethos that I click with. This aside, I'm going to enjoy seeing the raw strength of the people pulling the carts and the rest of festival celebrations.

Arrival

“I heard it’s said the trick, is to set your watch before you hit the plain, that way you can trick, the workings of a tiered brain.” Mr Turner’s advice on travelling, and it’s not a bad shout. My laptop tells me that it’s 23:14 back in the cold country. My watch tells me that it’s 04:48, and I’m sat here waiting for the slow dropping of sleep to descend. However over two hours have passed since I began my vigilance and Iv decided to harness my frustrated tossing and turning in the hope that sleep will begin to feel jealous, and come back to me when it realises I’m no longer interested in it.

So on with the experience, as ‘Jet Lag’ dies, and Franky T declares “That was the one. Yep.” let’s begin at the beginning.

Arrival.

                The journey to India by plain takes about 12 hours including pre-flight arrival, delays and departure. You’ll be in the air for about 8 of those. Because I’m backpacking I didn’t bring a student sized rucksack for on the plain, day excursions ext. So my first action upon getting my bag from the carousel of luggage was to empty the contents of the W.H. Smiths plastic carrier bag that had accompanied me on my flight, and jam it all back into my rucksack.

                A group of men who presumably worked in the airport stood as an audience to this struggle, and I gave away the book I’d finished on the flight with a “Yah achah kitab”, much to their delight. Attempts at the local language and small acts of kindness see, a solid way to being any stint of travelling. I didn’t expect those men to do anything in return, the act itself was beneficial in germinating within me the appropriate mind set.

                Passing customs with a waggle of the head to the guard with the big gun, I go to find a pre-paid taxi rank. Seeing two young lads from on the plain, rucksack laden, I say hello. We exchange pleasantries and establish that they’re going to the Paharganj district, having reserved a hotel near the train station which co-insides nicely with my own destination. The Paharganj district is defiantly an advisable starting place for any lone backpacker to find his feet. Containing dozens of cheep hostels and hotels submerged like chocolate chips in a cookie dough of colourful shops. However it was three hours before I ended up in the Paharganj district, alone, checking in to the room that the boys had reserved.

                Our taxi driver was accompanied by a college who had damaged his arm and was to be dropped of at the hospital after we were set. This was fortuitous for me, but not so for my two newly found companions. The injured man spoke fluent English and after sampling my Hindi, once again to the delight of the natives, we stuck to English. He asked our destination, checked the print out that the boys had been provided with, declared it lacking and told us not to fear, we would search out this Hotel Vivik that so furrowed his brow with confusion. Alas, driving around didn’t work[1] and so with much further furrowing of those poor eyebrows our injure man told us that we would stop of at a tourist office to ask directions. The friendly man at the desk there laughed when we told him we were from England, and showed us an array of passport photographs from previous customers, many of whom were from England. He contacted the hotel for the lads, and told them that their reservation had been voided due to an overbooking. He apologised on his country man’s behalf and explained that because it was Eiad the city was even more over crowded. He told our driver of a hotel that had just had a cancellation, and we jumped back into the cab. However before doing so the boys had a cheeky fag, an on the sly I told them about the scams and tourist touts that i’d come across many a time in my Lonely Planet.

                It was in the car that one of the boys realised there wasn’t a phone number for Hotel Vivik on the print out they had, and that the friendly gentleman had miraculously known the number of the top of his head.

                The hotel the boys are deposited at is nice enough, and cheep enough to undercut the desire for further travel. We make our goodbys, and I once again jump back into the cab with our talkative injured friend. Yes the lads were scammed, but every one walked away happy, so i decided to take the man up on his offer of help. Back to the tourist office and our man with the miraculous memory. With some sucking of teeth (but only a small furrowing of the brows) the man there gives our driver some further directions to a decent place near the train station. We jump into the cab once again, accompanied by another man “to help, yes?”

                The conversation turns to the next leg of my plans and before we arrive my new found friend is delighted to tell me he knows the best place to buy train tickets, and that he’ll come back in a few hours to take me there. Helpful guy. We pull in on a street that’s having work done to the sewage pipes and so my potential hotel has its own moat and distinguished aroma. It’s also disgusting. Contrary to the assurances of my companion that the place is “A-Ok!” and much, much cheaper because of his negotiation skills its evident from the first that the dirty, run down room with a mere trickle of water coming from the shower is in serious need of a make over. Maybe they were trying to raise the funds by over charging the guests? Unable to convince my ‘guide’ that there wasn’t a snow ball’s chance in Delhi of me staying there, I cede to his assurances, tell him i’ll meet him there in a few hours and watch him drive away, our injured friend waving with his good hand. Wondering if he’ll ever get to the hospital (or if his arm is even injured?) I hoist my backpack up once more depart the irked staff, the stench of the sewer and sensation of feeling dirty by proximity, and set off.

                Before I reach the metro I have 3 different offers from auto rickshaws. The third driver speaks good English, and we settle on a reasonable price for me demands. I wish to be taken to the train station. I wish to go via the main bazaar[2]. No! I do not wish to be taken to a tourist office. Ten minutes later, winding our way through the bazaar my driver tells me we are just around the corner from the station. Hard laughter hits me, and smiling I tell him to pull up, get my stuff, pay and tip the man, and walk in to Hotel Vivik. Sure enough, the reservation for a double room is still valid. The room is what I’m looking for, cheep but cheerful. And above all, clean. On a sweet note the roof of the hotel host’s Sam’s Cafe, a eating house recommended by Lonely Planet for both it’s food and the pool of backpackers who congregate there. After a vegetable curry and a bottle of water, I spend a few hours drinking beer with a group of decent German lads. The advice and knowledge I get from them isn’t listed in the Lonly Planet, and is all the more helpful because of it. But now my laptop tells me it’s 00:30 in the cold country, and the night all a glimmer, I feel myself needing to yawn.

The Next Day

It seems that life starts early in Dehli. Not that this is a suprise, rather this information was not of much use to me until it becomes relevant. At quater to seven in the morning with a head ache, jet lag and insomnia the scene is set for this information to become relavent. Im now sat on top of my hotel once more, literally feeling the day become brighter around me. Whether its inside the hotel, or one of it’s neighbours, some sod has been hamering away for the last half an hour. Is it some form of government punishment? Break bricks from six till six?[3] The beautiful winds of India still seem to be on my side however, and have blown luck my way once more. Upon collecting my laptop and books to ascend to the roof, I met what i presume is the night porter. Now i have a steaming glass of Chi next to two tablets of paracitamel. Headache be gone!

                Also, i’v just realised that although I’m not noticeably cold I can see my breath vividly in the air when i breath.

The raising sun is playing the conductor this morning, and the smashing of bricks continues to the accomliment of a pneumatic drill and the first few beeping of car horns. The nice Naples man who is baking the day’s bread in the cafe’s kitchen is whistleing away, and his colloge is ‘swish-wish’ing his way across the floor with a rustic broom, apparently giving the dust a chance to tour the place before those pesky shoes come and trample it down again.

Ten minuets ago when i set my laptop down I didn’t have the option of reading my book because it would worsened my headache to strain my eyes in such poor light. Now, the cafe is bathed in light. Amusingly[4] enough, considering the last sentence, a gentleman has just appeared dressed in a towel, carrying a bucket of water with a cloth thrown over his shoulder. Aparently the sun isn’t the only one interested in bathing. Ow! Luck, here’s his friend! Where the first guy was old with grey hair, this new man is a tall guy with a massive belly hanging over his towel. I can’t tell if it’s exercise or some tradition,[5] but the gents are now making the rounds, rolling their arms in circular motions from bum to neck. It looks like he’s pouring a puddle of water over his head, but without the water.

The nice Napales man with the bobble hat is now making me another cup of Chi. I can only eat his tasty smelling bread at 8 when the kitchen fully opens. For the moment he’s come and sat next to me and is looking over my shoulder while i write this. I tried showing him the previous sentence where he’s involved, but im not sure he really understands. I tried using sign language ext, but i wasn’t overly succcsesfull. Still, i learnt he’s from Ruddayar, near Darjeeling but on the Nepales side of the border. His shift started at 3 and he’s finished baking the days bread and cakes just now. He laughed when i played him ‘A Hard Days Night’ by the Beatles, but I’m not sure he caught the relevance.  He’s been sent back to the kitchen by his boss, who kindly taught me the word ‘very’, so that i could tell him i was ‘very good.’

Anyway i was sat up here with some German lads last night having a few beers. Three of the guys have just finished making a documentary on traditional musicians in Jodhpur near Pakistan. The musicians used to play for the Maharaja of the region, now they live in a commune and play for tourists. As nice as they’re story was, it was the fourth member of their group who interested me most. Planning on driving across India on a motorbike[6] he spent a month in Delhi to acclimate himself. So, on to received wisdom.

Received wisdom

1.)    Money and belongings.

Anything that isn’t unique or brand name (e.g. DC’s or Armani) can be bought over here for a fraction of the cost. The bare minimum you need is a pair of boxers and a spare shirt. It’s probably a wise idea to bring your laptop. Writting in the dead of night aside, there is a serious risk is accessing your online banking via any unsecure wireless network, and especially through an internet cafe. Hence buying a dongle over here is a worthwhile investment. You could just have all your money in the account your card is associated with, but the issue then is if the card is stolen, especially as the limit to buying goods online . . . isn’t in existence? Either way, have cash on you[7], keep a good emergency fund in a safe a place as possible, and try to use your own devices if your revealing sensitive information online.

2.)    Communication.

I’v just been talking to the night porter again, and he was telling me in broken English about a Japanese couple who speak neither English or Hindi. He was not impressed. English is more than sufficient, but a few phrases of Hindi will go a long way, especially when dealing with shop keepers/ cab drivers. Buy a mobile over here on pay as you go, it’ll cost less than £20 to buy it pre topped up. However make sure you get an unlimited one which one stop working in a month’s time. Also you apparently need to register in order to buy it, and this requires two passport photos. You can buy both the phone and dongle from AMT (recommended) at Connaught Place.

3.)     Accommodation

First rule of thumb, if it feels wrong, walk away.[8] If you feel the price is too much, or the room isn’t acceptable then try to communicate your thoughts, but if all else fails then shoulder your pack once more and try next door. Even when Delhi is jam packed there will always be a room. If you arrive in the middle of the night expect to pay almost double. If you haven’t pre-booked a place, and I personally wouldn’t bother, then a head to a touristy area and engage the shoe lace express. Do NOT trust the ‘helpful advice’ of a kindly taxi driver! Check that the temperature will be acceptable (air con/fan/quilt ext) that the shower has hot water, and that there are no visible signs of mildew/mould! This last point becomes particularly important if you are planning on spending a long time at the room. Lung infection anyone? Recommendations in Delhi- Hotel Vivik- good, food to suite all palates at any time. Rupes, 500-700. Kind Hotel- very clean for somewhere so cheap, not great bathrooms. Rupes, 200-400.  Mini Yes Hotel- near the imperial palace, and next poor to ‘Cottage Yes Please!’ probably the place I’m going to stay tonight. Worth finding. Except as a retrospective insert, i never did, and it doesn’t seem to exist.

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[1] We were travelling in a pre-paid auto-rickshaw, and so weren’t racking up a large bill. At least half as cheap as any normal cab you can get, there’s also the illusion of accountability.

[2] Where my Lonely planet tells me the appropriate hotels are to be found.

[3] Try saying that drunk.

[4] No word of a lie, perfect timing.

[5] Possibly both

[6] Which he seems be building from scratch from ‘all original parts’.

[7] Small notes like 10’s will be a lot more versatile and useful than 500’s.

[8] That’s pretty much applies across the board.